Page 38 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

After that, there’s nothing more to do except trace the scents of the escaped slaves. I track them through the field into Ashbourne. Their scents—four of them—stay close together. They lead to a coach in the poorer part of the city and end there.

They’ve left the city. There’s no tracking them from here. Not unless I wanted to spend a significant amount of time pursuing a few humans who might not even know much about the Ivy Mask themselves.

I mark the lead as dead and return home to catch a few hours of sleep. Humans need far more sleep than fae, but it still catches up to me every few days.

Quietly, I slip into my own room, not disturbing Edvear or the other staff. I toss away my jerkin and tunic, only to pause a second later. The memory of Nat’s scandalized expression when she saw me shirtless resurfaces. I roll my eyes once more, but then I remember that she is supposed to be sleeping in the room adjoining this one.

Curiosity makes me approach Nat’s door. I don’t open it to respect her privacy, but I do place my ear close to the wood. I can make out her faint, even breaths from here. She’s asleep.

My brow puckers slightly.

Is the sob story she told me at breakfast true? The emotion in her body was clear: the haunted look in her eye, the slight inward curling of her shoulders, the shift in her breathing. I’m inclined to think it was, though the timeline she offered is inaccurate. Her parents have been dead for much longer.

If she did lose her mother to the expansion of Caphryl Wood, and her father not long after, then what turns did her life take to bring her here? Why would she have a skilled servant for an older sister, but she herself not be skilled? And the ever-present question: why the disguise?

I step away from the door.

Nat wasn’t raised as a servant. Which means Mary likely isn’t her sister.

I return to my spy theory as I navigate the darkness to my bed and lay down, staring up at the rafters. On one hand, it still seems the most plausible that Nat would be a spy sent from Queen Vivienne.

I just cannot believe an official spy would bethis bad. Perhaps sheisthis bad, and I am letting my own bias cloud my vision. Still, it doesn’t sit right. I could interrogate and threaten her until she broke and told me the truth. I could even use some . . .forceful persuasion,if she proved difficult to crack. If I was Pelarusa, or either of my parents, that is exactly what I would do.

But I have always been inclined to lean back and watch. To observe. To wait and see how things will play out. Perhaps part of me also enjoys the game of it.

Another theory has been stirring in my mind. One that grows more compelling by the day.

She’s hiding.

From what, I do not know.

None of this is my business, and as long as she doesn’t threaten my errands, I see no harm in letting her do whatever she came to do. The moment she does, though—and by consequence, Pavi’s life—she’ll be dismissed. Or worse.

For now, however?

I’ll let her continue her charade as long as she likes.

Kat

“Itwasnicetosee Mary yesterday evening. I thought the two of you looked nothing alike, but then she crinkled her nose like you do. I couldn’t stop seeing the resemblance then,” says Charity the next morning as she spoons oatmeal into dishes for the staff’s breakfast.

“I wish I had a big sister,” says Becky from her stool.

I give a little laugh as I take the prince’s breakfast tray. I try to think of a proper response, and come up with nothing. So, I give an awkward shrug to Charity and carry my tray out.

I’ve already laid out the prince’s clothes. He was measured for new, human-styled clothing yesterday. Soon, he’ll look less like a warrior sent to destroy us all and, aside from his striking features and unusual hair color, he willalmostlook human. If he pulls his hair back in a way that covers his long, pointed ears, that is.

For the first time since I arrived, I woke to evidence that he slept in his bed last night. He was long gone by daybreak, however, if the coldness of the bedclothes I rearranged were any indication.

I lay out his breakfast on the low table in his bedroom. His approaching footsteps in the hallway make my spine stiffen, and I pray desperately that this morning, he will be fully dressed.

The door squeaks on its hinges. The prince’s voice is low and monotone behind me. “Thank you.”

I turn around. He wears the new set of black clothing I laid out for him. He hasn’t donned his jerkin, but his tunic is embroidered with silver thread fine enough to make even a queen weep. I release the breath I’d been holding and bow.

He hardly even looks at me as he sits down to his breakfast.

I turn to leave.

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